POETRY COMPETITION - DEADLINE

THE RESULTS

To start the year off, it was a "double header" - Flash Fiction and Poetry competition.

We received yet again a bumper crop of entries. For the Flash Fiction competition, please click here.

Results were announced at our meeting on Monday 16 January, and it's congratulations to:

1st Place - Louise Welland Take Off
2nd Place - Jan Rees The Camel's Back
3rd Place - Andrea Neidle Love Is Blind
4th Place - Kay Hall Procrastination

Well done to everyone who entered.

ENTRY 1

TICK by Helen Nicell

Tick tock, tick tock

Don’t you see how time is passing?

The days roll into nights

The weeks into months

Then another year has gone

Tick tock, tick tock

Don’t you see how time is passing?

Take exams, leave school

Get a job, get a partner

Mortgage, set up home

Tick tock, tick tock

Don’t you see how time is passing?

Now a family of your own

Strive for promotion, education

A good life for your family.

Tick tock tick tock

Don’t you see how time is passing?

Elderly parents, find them care

Equity release, mourning

The sandwich generation.

Tick tock, tick tock

Don’t you see how time is passing?

Time to retire, work life done

Travel and hobbies

And medical appointments

Tick tock, tick tock

You didn’t see how time was passing

Striving all your life to reach this

That’s what it was all about?

The final deadline…

ENTRY 2

I'M WRITING by Susan Bennett

I’m writing to a deadline

No need to fret or worry

As there is plenty of time

I’ll just slip out for a curry

Fireworks welcomed the New Year

Now it’s time to start writing

I must get on with an idea

Think of something exciting

But first I must just clear up

After all the festivities and fun

And, of course, our new pup,

and take advantage of the sun

After all the rain and days of grey.

Well, that was a nice diversion

But I can no longer spare time to play

Or go out on the family excursion

The deadline is upon me

Nothing comes to mind

It’s like I am lost at sea

TIME’S UP

ENTRY 3

UNHAPPY SHIP by Judy Klimt

Seeing as my unhappy ship

Had brought me to this port,

I should have bailed out long ago

Without a second thought.

I should have seen the shape of things,

The shape of things to come,

And saved oh so much trouble to

Myself and everyone.

Was never destined to prevail -

What was I thinking of,

Against all signs, appearances

That I should win the toss?

Who would have brought me all this way

With such determined power

If they had planned to pluck me out

At the eleventh hour!

ENTRY 4

TAKE OFF by Louise Welland

We rushed and we stressed, left house in a mess, she nagged, we argued I glared

She speaks down to me then raises her voice. I retort "I'm not hearing impaired"

She always insists on getting there early. It's a tiresome annoying ritual

Reality says we'll be three hours early, that’s not what I call being punctual

The 4am motorway’s as clear as a bell, yet still her foot's pushed to the floor

This holiday is already feeling like hell, It's the same damn thing, year after year

Get to the car park, arrive in the dark, find somewhere to leave the car

The chill of the silence between us both matches, the outside cold nip in the air

I feel so alone when the shuttle turns up, it's madness, a 5am bus

Shivering now we get on at the rear, how odd, there are others like us

We've three hours to go before boarding the plane, so we sit and we stare at the wall

We've been in this same sad piteous place, year after year I recall

Silence isn't golden, it's dark and it's bleak, since discourse stopped around two

There's nothing to do now except people watch, and occasional trip to the loo

We check in the cases then walk half a mile, towards the departure lounge

Drink bitter coffee, search more boring shops, so weary of hanging around

Then two hours before we are due to take off, we go to our designated gate

More people coughing and looking annoyed, some panicking in case they are late

Hundreds of people on mobile phones, screeching kids running around

Some couples, like us hardly saying a word, whilst others are talking too loud

The departure boards flipping so damn bloody fast. It's in French, having trouble translating

Then 'she' starts mumbling "What's going on? Why are they keeping us waiting?"

I grit my teeth, shaking my head I think "It's the last break I'm having with you"

Then we finally get some verbal direction, an hour after take-off was due

The announcement comes over "Please board your flight now. Move quickly please, no hesitation"

We rush to the gate, tickets in hand Thank God that we're finally moving.

The security guard peers at our cards and growls "Sorry, this is gate eleven

Your flight left an hour ago, it took off from gate number seven"

ENTRY 5

THE PENALTY SHOOT-OUT by Melville Lovatt

On steel wings, extra time has flown.

A brutal shoot-out will decide

whose cup will overflow with joy

or heartbreak if their dream has died.

The ball is placed upon the spot.

A terrible silence starts to reign.

The penalty taker, about to strike,

will release great roars of triumph or pain.

The goalie…will he be the hero?

From his line, alone and brave,

will he turn the odds around?

Read the striker’s mind, and save?

For the striker there is all to gain.

More to lose if he should miss.

No mercy or solace for him then.

Small comfort in a pitying kiss.

Will football history now be made?

The referee’s whistle, sharp and shrill,

propels the striker towards his goal.

The crowd awaits the final kill.

ENTRY 6

PROCRASTINATION by Kay Hall

I’ll do it after Christmas,

I’ll do it post New Year,

I’ll do it when my muse comes.

But now the time it nears…

Hurry, hurry, hurry,

The deadline’s coming fast.

Three days, two days, one day. Oh no!

I’ve left it to the last!

The paper sits before me,

A white and pristine sheet.

No words disturb its surface,

No thoughts disrupt my peace.

I need to start to write now,

But thoughts elude me still.

The hours fade relentlessly,

It makes me feel quite ill!

Ten hours to go. Now merely five,

And four, and three, and two.

And now the briefest hour remains.

Whatever shall I do?

At half-past six it happens,

As ideas flood my brain.

Quick now, quick now, write something down.

I’ve only myself to blame.

I’ve still fifteen short minutes left

To submit my words on time.

So do it now, or feel bereft.

But, check each word and line.

Change that word there, and this, and that.

And send. I knew I’d get it done.

Eventually. In my own sweet way,

Though procrastinating’s never fun!

ENTRY 7

LOVE IS BLIND by Andrea Neidle

I met her in a bar

It was love at first sight, she said

She came home in my car

And we spent the week in bed

We made love every day

There was magic in her kiss

The hours flew away

I'd never known such bliss

I lavished money on her

As any man would do

Bought her a fabulous fur

That cost me a bob or two

A five star hotel in Rome

Was the beginning of the end

She wanted to go home

And drove me round the bend

I've never had a lover

Quite like you, she said

I want you to meet my mother

I want us to be wed

Living together isn’t the thing

For me and you, I said

I really don't want to buy a ring

I just like you in my bed

After that she dumped me

Took my car and ran

Cleared out all my furniture

She must have hired a van

I've tried to get back with her

I phone her all the time

But there’s never any answer

It must be a dead line.

ENTRY 8

THE PURPLE SUIT by Melville Lovatt

Whatever possessed him to wear a purple suit?

Everyone else was wearing black.

His suit was attracting a lot of attention…

This major blunder could get him the sack.

This was, after all, a menswear company

burying its founder, a great arbiter of taste

who had built his empire maintaining dark decorum.

A purple suit was a waste of space!

It wouldn’t have mattered at a southern funeral.

A purple suit there, fine for funeral or wake.

But here, they would take a very dim view.

A purple suit was a serious mistake.

Their looks, disapproving, no doubt about that,

all seemed to say, ‘All you need is a hat.

A purple hat to match your stupid suit.’

He was certain, now. He would get the boot.

But after the burial, surprise! Surprise!

People thankedhim for being so brave!

For daring to wear purple, defying the dictator.

For making the old sod turn in his grave.

ENTRY 9

DON'T FORGET TO LIVE by Jo Morgan

Some people stop living long before they die.

Always rushing, never stopping to see the flowers grow or the birds fly.

They don’t see their own existence edging towards life’s dead line.

Squeezing so much into the diary, ironically spouting inspiring quotes

“Make the most of every day”, “carpe diem” “life’s too short.”

Yet somehow, never living up to them

Just doing, but never actually being.

Goings from day to day with their mundane routine,

Forgetting their fragile existence could be extinguished at any time,

Ever creeping towards life’s deal line.

“Mum come play with me.”

“Sorry darling, I’m forging a career, Building our future”

Pretending not to see the disappointment in loved one’s eyes,

Choosing to paper over the cracks of a life so benign its suffocating.

But when will it be “the future”?

Will it come in time to enjoy family life?

Or will it be too close to life’s dead line.

When was the last time you stopped to enjoy life’s simple things?

The smell of freshly brewed coffee, in a cup not a takeaway mug,

or watch a squirrel scamper up a tree, with its cheeks bulging, full of nuts,

or sat and pondered or even dare to daydream?

When was the last time you laughed, a genuine, from the belly laugh,

Or played a silly game, just for the fun of playing.

When was the last time you said “to hell with that deadline.

Yes, I’ll Come out!” the world won’t stop spinning if the reports late,

We put unrealistic time constraints on ourselves and others.

Tight schedules that, let’s face it,

Mean little to noting in the grand scheme of life.

Who really cares if the housework isn’t done,

Or St Michael make your dinner rather than your own fair hand.

Dance, laugh, sing, remember to live before you reach life’s dead line.

ENTRY 10

THOSE OL' SUNDAY NIGHT BLUES by Liz Shaw

Friday night, my Ma says Wait!

Get rid of those boys hangin’ at the gate

You know you’ll feel that ol’ regret

If you ain’t done your homework yet

You’ll get those ol’ homework deadline blues!

You’ll get those ol’ homework deadline blues!

Saturday night, Pa says Girl!

Stay at home, don’t twerk and twirl

There’ll be plenty of time to have your fun

Once you get your homework done

Oh Lord don’t get those homework deadline blues!

Oh Lord don’t get those homework deadline blues!

Sunday evening comes around

And that is why I’m feelin’ down

Things hang heavy on my heart

‘Cos I’ve left it too darn late to start

I got those ol’ homework deadline blues!

I got those ol’ homework deadline blues!

ENTRY 11

THE CAMEL'S BACK by Jan Rees

She often missed his deadlines, although she did her best

She knew that he would punish if she didn’t pass the test

It started with the laundry, a clean white shirt each day

Ironed to crisp perfection or else he might not stay

And then there was the cleaning, there must be no dust

She did not know which one was worse, his anger or his lust

There were of course the children, they were her pride and joy

A curly headed daughter and then a lively boy

He supervised their homework, and although there was a lot

He gave them random spelling tests, to put them on the spot

Meal times were a nightmare, if not ready, piping hot

The family round the table at seven on the dot

The children sat in silence, uncertain of his mood

She hardly had an appetite, just toying with her food

“I work hard to feed you”, he shouted, “eat your meal”

His daughter started crying, fear was all that she could feel

The boy was more defiant, and stood to face his Dad,

Who struck him in his anger. Things had never been this bad

She knew this was the last time she would tolerate his rage

She knew that she would go and take the children, leave the cage

One day when he had gone to work, they packed their things and went

Left behind the misery, her patience all but spent

They left behind the violence, determined to be free

And looked towards the future as a loving family.

ENTRY 12

TOO LATE by Mike Lansdown

The stage is set.

‘Spotlights on!’ and so begins

The First (and final) Scene…

Music plays: loud, jaunty, jolly

Enter: Unwanted Guest

Who:

…Prowls the garden,

…Presses nose to window pane,

…Tries the lock, again,

and finally

…Enters room.

They party on,

Unseeing

Glasses raised, luck toasted,

Fingers firmly jammed

Into ears that refuse to hear

Its deep-throat growl.

And so, at Centre Stage, it stands

The Panto Villain

Who wrings its bony hands

And delivers

(No prompt required)

Weary, well-worn lines

Its message

Lost amid the babble of a billion crossed lines

And the echoes of as many broken promises.

Its ‘dead' lines slowly becoming clearer

‘I am Gaia! Your time is nigh!’

‘Behind you! Behind you!’ the audience cry

Cop 27, then Cop 28

Warning heeded

Just years too late.